


After he took from you everything he could steal

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Female Obi-Wan Kenobi, Id Fic, Sex as Weapon, Suitless Vader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-13 19:29:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12990954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: "I'll most likely kill you in the morning."





	After he took from you everything he could steal

**Author's Note:**

> Also contains an untidy mix of Stockholm syndrome and Lima syndrome, but I wasn't quite sure how to tag that.
> 
> Title from Bob Dylan, summary from The Princess Bride. Many thanks to Silveronthetree for encouraging me, and to Snacky for enabling me and also looking it over.

Mustafar

"It's over, Anakin. I have the high ground." Obi-Wan stares across the lava flow separating them, still wondering how they came to this.

"You underestimate my power," Anakin shouts in reply, and as exhausted as she is, Obi-Wan can't help the reflexive desire to roll her eyes at his delusions of grandeur. She has rarely underestimated him, has always known he was capable of great and terrible things. Perhaps she should have told him that more often, but now is not the time to reflect on the failure of her pedagogical technique.

Before Obi-Wan can voice a response, malignant darkness floods the Force. Not from Anakin--she supposes she should call him Vader now, the name his new master has given him--and she calculates the distance to the ship, where Padmé is still lying unconscious. She has to get her out of here before Sidious comes. He might have taken Anakin from her, but Obi-Wan will be damned before he gets the children too. Or, she tells herself bitterly, she's already damned, but this is one last thing she can do right.

"I will not fight you anymore," she says, disengaging her lightsaber and turning her back on him. If he strikes her down, so be it--the fact that he raised his hand to Padmé shows just how far he's fallen, and she had to accept long ago that she herself is not so dearly beloved--but she doesn't think he will. He'll want to beat her and humiliate her, not stab her in the back.

He doesn't attack. He doesn't even follow her. He yells at her, more of the nonsense he's been spouting since she got here, about how he's the most powerful Jedi in history, and he'll show her.

"You've shown me," she murmurs to herself as she races back to the ship. She gathers Padmé in her arms and signals Artoo to follow her aboard. "You've shown me just what a failure I am." She shouldn't be focusing on such personal issues, but it's the only way she can focus at all; she can't bear to think about everything else that's happened, and how her failure with Anakin is at the heart of it.

She leaves him there and doesn't look back, folding herself up behind her shields because she doesn't want to feel it when he finally severs the bond between them. 

That blow never comes, and the ship lurches into hyperspace just as Palpatine lands. Padmé and the babies are safe for now. 

She reminds herself to live in the moment, to focus only on what is currently in front of her, and leave her fears for the future and her regrets about the past to the Force. They have no place in her mind now. There will be plenty of time for recrimination later, as long as they all survive.

She sets course for Polis Massa, and resumes her vigil at Padmé's side. She's failed everyone else in her life; let her succeed at least in keeping Anakin's wife and children alive.

*

Two Years Later  
Botajef

Vader stalks back to his shuttle, frustrated by the lack of clear-cut resolution on this mission. These people might not be the most fervent Imperial citizens, but there's no sign of rebellion here, or even sympathy for any burgeoning insurrection. All their fear is centered on a farm the outskirts of the town, but the only people living there are scrawny, tired-looking girls who scurry away at his approach. The one he'd interrogated had done nothing but quiver and stammer in terror, and he'd let her go with a disgusted huff and a warning that he'd be back if he discovered she was lying to him about their activities. He knows she wasn't, though. It's highly unsatisfying.

A stormtrooper steps up beside him. "We have a situation, sir."

Vader looks at him expectantly, biting back his impatience. He misses Rex's competence sometimes almost as much as he misses--Well. He ruthlessly cuts short that line of thought. 

Two other troopers escort a cloaked woman towards him. Vader senses a stirring in the Force he hasn't felt since Mustafar, wondering if his thoughts have somehow conjured her.

"She was trying to sneak onto your shuttle, sir."

The woman raises her hands and pushes back her hood. "I'd hardly call it sneaking," Obi-Wan says lightly, her voice exactly as he remembers. "They wouldn't have seen me if I hadn't wanted to be caught."

"True." Vader closes the distance between them with two steps and towers over her. "Give me one reason not to kill you right now."

"At least let me make my death meaningful," she replies, unruffled. She looks older and even more careworn than when he'd last seen her, and this close, he can see some silver beginning to thread through the red-gold of her hair. It's grown out of the bob she'd kept it in during the war, and shines against the dull brown of her cloak. Her eyes are the same, though, coolly judging him from behind her damned shields. 

She's still beautiful. She probably always will be, as much as he'd like to deny it. His body still yearns for hers, though he'd never had it--her--that way, and now he never will.

His mouth twists in an annoyed frown. "I'll take it from here, Sergeant."

The sergeant nods and the troopers march off to scare the townsfolk again. 

Vader tugs Obi-Wan onto the shuttle with him. She doesn't resist. She feels curiously light, as if she's thinner even than she was in the last days of the war, when none of them were doing as well as they'd pretended.

He takes her to the cockpit and pushes her into the co-pilot's seat, then crosses his arms over this chest and inclines his head, looming threateningly. 

"The farm you're investigating," she says, tipping her chin up to challenge him. 

"They're hiding something," he confirms.

"They're runaway slaves," she says. "That's all." She meets his gaze squarely, but that means nothing. He's seen her lie with a straight face more times than he can count. He waits and she lowers her shields enough to let him know that she's telling the truth via the Force. Even she had never figured out how to lie there. Her presence is bright and familiar and _true_.

Vader scowls. He'd spoken to Palpatine early on about the Empire's use of slaves and had taken the answer he was given with what little grace he could muster. Much as he had as a child, when the Jedi hadn't allowed him to go back to Tatooine to free his mother and the others. It's yet another slight he's had to choke down, but there's nothing he can do about it until he's ready to challenge his master. 

As for this batch of runaways, as long as they're not fomenting rebellion, they're not in his purview, and he's inclined to leave them be for now, even though no one would gainsay him if he chose not to. But Obi-Wan wants something from him, and that's intriguing. She doesn't need to know he's already made the decision she's angling for.

"My Master expects--"

She scoffs. "We both know you've never done what your masters expect." She raises an eyebrow. "I'd say I'm in a position to know better than anyone just how well you've always exceeded expectations."

There was a time he'd have done anything for such validation from her. Now, he just snorts in disbelief. "That's laying it on a little thick, don't you think?"

She shrugs one slim shoulder. "Perhaps. But it _is_ true."

"Enough of this nonsense, Obi-Wan. What is it you really want?" What is it, he wonders, that's so important about these ragged villagers? Or is it just her constant need to save people, even people who don't deserve it, people who don't want to be saved, at work here?

"I'll go with you in order to spare them your attention," she says, and even now, they're scarily in tune with each other, "or, rather, the attentions of your men."

He gives her a sharp look at that. It's true that most Imperial troopers are not as disciplined as the clones were, but the men under his command are still the core of the 501st and they've never been known to indulge in those behaviors. Not that the Emperor would care. He's heard Tarkin encourages such things in his men, but Vader prefers the clean kill to the distasteful mess of rape. From what he's seen over the years, it creates more rebels than it deters. Part of him is offended that she'd ever besmirch the 501st's discipline in that way. Part of him knows that's the type of reactionary response she's looking for, and doesn't want to give it to her.

"I already have you, Obi-Wan. You have no leverage."

"I'm here because I choose to be here, _Darth_." Her voice drips with disdain. "And I'll choose to stay should you recall your men now and leave those girls alone." She leans back in the seat. "They belonged to Gardulla the Hutt. Their presence here harms no one." Her mouth curves in a sharp smile. "Except Gardulla."

He knows he should insist on returning the runaways to their owner, but part of him, the part that remembers being owned and then the sheer joy of being freed, wants to hurt Gardulla in any way he can. His master has not allowed him that revenge yet, and this small measure might sate him for a while. And he can always kill Obi-Wan later. 

He taps his comm unit. "Have everyone return to the shuttle, Sergeant. We're done here."

"Yes, sir."

He looks at Obi-Wan, who regards him smugly from the co-pilot's seat. "I know you're up to something, Obi-Wan. I'm wise to your tricks."

"No tricks, Darth. Or may I call you Vader?"

"I doubt you'll have much occasion to call me anything," he replies. "You'll be dead soon enough."

"Of course," she says, because she never could let him have the last word.

He points a threatening finger at her. "Don't test me."

"I would never," she says, and then sadder, softer, "It's no longer my place."

"No," he says, refusing to be moved. She'd made her choice and she hadn't chosen him. She'll have to live--and die--by it. "Now be quiet. You are my prisoner and that is all the men need to know."

She inclines her head ironically but shuts up, which is actually better than he expected. When he pulls the cuffs off his belt, she holds out her wrists with a small grimace and lets him put them on her. They both know she could easily get out of them, so he doesn't bother with the farce of forcing her hands behind her back. 

The cuffs look bulky and out of place on her slender wrists, and he's suddenly reminded of being chained between her and Dooku by that ridiculous pirate Ohnaka, and their increasingly ludicrous attempts to escape. Teasing words rise to his lips but he bites them back. She's no longer entitled to them, and anyway, it's poor form for a Sith Lord to indulge in jocularity. 

Part of him has missed that, has missed _her_ with the same desperate ache with which he'd missed his right arm after he'd lost it. It's different from the romantic longing he feels for Padmé. He knows he killed her, knows that even if she'd survived, he'd no longer have the right to her affections, though he'd have sought them until the day he died. But missing Obi-Wan is like missing parts of himself he hadn't even known existed until they were gone. 

Some small voice in the back of his mind suggests those were the best parts of himself, but he smothers it ruthlessly and instead focuses his attention on figuring out a strategy for questioning her when they return to his flagship. She's cunning and brilliant, but he knows her as well as he knows himself, and this time, he won't let her get the best of him.

*

ISD Perilous

After they dock, he draws up her hood to hide her face and her remarkable hair, and escorts her off the shuttle personally. He doesn't trust her out of his sight and doesn't want to leave his men to her tender mercies. He ignores the troopers' startled whispers, their hidden sniggers and lewd murmurs as he marches her through the corridors of the ship. He's never brought a woman aboard, never had any interest after--after Mustafar. Their prurient gossip will work in his favor. No one will suspect that he's got the Empire's most wanted criminal stashed in his quarters. And no one will question why she's not in the brig instead.

Once the door has sealed shut behind them, he disengages the surveillance system (his master trusts no one, and discovering that was its own special sting, but perhaps he's being unfair; betrayal is built into the Sith way of life, after all; they are more honest about it than the Jedi, at any rate) and shoves her into the center of the anteroom. Her hood falls back, her hair glimmering under the harsh lighting, and she glances around, no doubt cataloguing every detail. Everything is bolted down. There's nothing here that will help her escape.

"Did you finally learn to pick up after yourself?" she asks with mock astonishment.

"You're not going to talk your way out of this one, Obi-Wan," he answers, unhooking the clasp at her throat with the Force and pushing the cloak off her shoulders to pool at her feet. She's not dressed like a Jedi, but her cream-colored shirt and tan trousers remind him of the tunics and leggings she used to wear, bulking up her slim figure and hiding her feminine curves.

"I rather thought I talked myself into it," she says with a familiar, self-deprecating grin. She looks relaxed but he knows her well enough even now to see the tension in her shoulders, the set of her chin. She's as nervous as she ever gets. Good. She should be.

He ignores her words and tugs at the belt cinched around her waist. 

"I'm unarmed," she protests.

Vader huffs, pulling the worn leather belt free with a zipping sound. "We both know that's not true." 

Next, he undoes the prim collar of her shirt, willing the fingers of his flesh hand not to shake. The linen is worn but finely woven, soft against the pads of his fingers, and warm from close contact with her skin. 

There were so many nights he'd played out similar scenarios in his fantasies that he can hardly believe this is real, but the sweet scent of her shampoo grounds him in the moment. He tells himself this is nothing like his fantasies even as he pulls the laces of the shirt free and shoves it off her shoulders. With her hands still cuffed, the material bunches up at her elbows. 

She's not wearing a bra.

He swallows hard, but after a quick glance down--no new scars that he can see--he meets her gaze again. 

"I must admit, this is not how I ever imagined this going," she says ruefully when his fingers find the fly of her trousers.

"You _imagined_ this?" he asks, surprised out of the silence she's not finding as intimidating as he'd hoped. He knows he shouldn't engage, shouldn't let her talk to him in that throaty, honeyed voice. More than one adversary has found themselves defeated by her wit and words, and he knows it's one area where he's still no match for her. 

"Not this." She holds up her cuffed hands. "But you undressing me? Yes." Her eyes go distant and her cheeks fill with the faintest wash of color. "Many times."

"Liar." He shoves her trousers and underwear down roughly, where they tangle around her calves with her boots and hobble her. He tries to ignore the feel of warm skin beneath his fingertips, the way her nipples have peaked in the cool air of the room, the unfamiliar thinness of her torso and unexpected softness of her belly. The shadowy triangle at the apex of her thighs, the one part of her he's never seen before, beckons, and he exerts considerable willpower to ignore it for now, though he can smell her, sweet and earthy, in the stale recycled air of the cabin.

"I'm not." She raises her chin and lowers her shields again, just enough to let him read the truth in the Force. "It would have been inappropriate before you were knighted, and then of course, afterwards, you were involved elsewhere."

Vader draws his hands away reflexively and swallows down the angry retort that wants to burst out of him at the glancing reference to Padmé. He tries to fit this new information into his understanding of the woman before him. There's no falsity in her words, not that he can sense, but his memory conjures up nothing to support them, either. 

He remembers the rumors in the Temple about the string of broken hearts Obi-Wan had left in her wake, her laughing deflection of any and all questions about her relationships with various contacts and politicians and even the occasional Jedi when Anakin had asked. Satine had been the exception, but that was one grief she'd never shared with him back when maybe it would have made a difference. He'd only realized how close they'd truly been when the duchess sobbed her way through Obi-Wan's false funeral when she'd gone undercover as Rako Hardeen. 

Anakin had been jealous of these rumored swains occasionally, but triumphant in the end. He was the one Obi-Wan kept at her side above all others, and the fact that they'd never had sex--that they probably never would--was secondary. He was in love with Padmé, after all, and he'd given up hoping for that sort of thing with Obi-Wan before he'd ever even seen Padmé again.

Which makes this confession doubly suspicious. "What game are you playing, Obi-Wan?"

"No games," she says, and there's the lie. He doesn't know why she tries to deny it. Before he can call her on it, she continues, "Call it a dying wish that is within your power to grant."

The flush in her cheeks has spread down to her chest and he traces the pink line of it with one gloved finger, freckle to freckle along her clavicle. She trembles under the touch, and not in fear. It sends a powerful rush of lust through him. Why shouldn't he have her? He can always kill her afterwards.

"Say it," he demands roughly. "Let there be no misunderstanding between us."

She swallows hard and wets her lips with the pink tip of her tongue. "I want you," she says, her voice even and her gaze meeting his boldly. 

The words send another jolt of heat to his cock and his mouth curves into a sharp grin. He crowds her against the edge of his desk, her movements restricted by her trousers, and he uses her moment of instability to turn her around. With the press of a gloved hand between her shoulder blades, he bends her over.

"What are you--" Her complaint dies on her lips as he slides his other hand over the curve of her hip and then down between her legs. He dips his fingers inside her cunt, which is hot and wet and quivers at his touch. She gasps likes she's been punched and clenches around his fingertips. He can feel the heavy ache of her desire in the Force and an answering heat blooms beneath his skin.

With one booted foot, he shoves her trousers down to her ankles, then steps between her legs, nudging her knees wider with his own. A quick flick of his wrist and his trousers are undone, his cock hard and heavy in his hand.

Obi-Wan lets out a low moan when he withdraws his fingers, shocking him with such an overt display of desire. She gasps again when he pushes inside her and her throat works as she swallows hard. He has to close his eyes and take a moment to retain control once he's sheathed inside her cunt, which is hot and wet and welcoming around him. It's been two years since he's had anything but the cold comfort of his own left hand, and he doesn't want to go off like a Klatooinian candle, finished before he's even started. (He resolutely doesn't think of his first time with Padmé, and how quickly and embarrassingly it was over.)

Only the fact that the desk is bolted down keeps it from skidding across the floor with the force of his thrusts as he fucks her. Her arms are stretched out in front of her, hands gripping the far edge of the desk, and her flushed cheek is pressed to the transparisteel surface of it, her breath making little patches of fog as she gasps. She can't be comfortable, but he doesn't care, and neither, it seems, does she.

He sets a punishing pace, doesn't bother to regulate the grip of his durasteel fingers on the soft curve of her hip. She'll be wearing the bruises for a while; the realization makes him squeeze harder. He rubs roughly at her clit with his other hand, wanting to be inside her when she comes. He opens himself to the bond he never quite managed to sever, and it flares to life between them, sparking with shared pleasure and tense with crescendoing need. 

"Obi-Wan," he says, his voice a demand and a plea all at once.

"Oh," she gasps, clenching and fluttering around him as her climax hits. 

He fucks her through it, following her into that abyss of pleasure when he comes, the way he'd once followed her everywhere, with his eyes closed and pleasure setting fire to his spine.

She's still shaking and panting when he pulls out. He cleans himself off on the tails of her shirt, and leaves her there without a word.

It's only later that he realizes she'd never said his name. Next time--and there will definitely be a next time (and a time after that) before he finally kills her--he'll demand that, too.

*

Vader can sense her wherever he is on the ship. He'd forgotten what that was like, revolving in tandem with her like the binary suns of Tatooine, and the thought of her splayed naked and begging across his desk intrudes when he's meant to focused on more important things. Then he remembers that he's no longer a Jedi--he has no need to exhibit restraint. He can have her whenever he likes, and there's no one to deny him.

His impatience with meetings is notorious, and more evident now than ever; no one thinks it odd when he cuts this latest one short with a barked, "Have the intel sent to my datapad. I will be in my quarters and I am not to be disturbed."

"Yes, Lord Vader."

He doesn't hurry, but he does stride with great purpose back to his quarters, wondering what he'll find there. 

She's not in the anteroom, though the smudges on his desktop are a reminder of what they'd done here only hours ago. His cock stirs in anticipation of a repeat performance, though perhaps this time he'll fuck her mouth first. It's one way to make sure she can't talk him into anything.

He doesn't expect to find her curled up naked in his bed, to all appearances deeply asleep. Her hair is damp and the cuffs he'd left her in are lying carelessly atop her discarded clothing, which is folded neatly on the chest of drawers. 

She doesn't stir, and part of him feels smug, but another part wonders if she's just that exhausted, or if some lingering familiarity has led her to lower her guard and forget that he's her enemy. He pushes that thought aside as he removes his boots and outer robe.

He picks up her boots and tosses them down the shaft to the garbage compactor. Her trousers, cloak, and shirt follow. It will be difficult for her to escape without clothes, and he likes the idea of her here, naked and vulnerable, whenever he wants her.

The dark satisfaction of that thought permeates the Force and she wakes, eyes fluttering open in a split second of confusion before she takes in his presence and remembers her situation. She sits up and stretches languidly, the sheet falling to expose her breasts, which are thrust at him enticingly when she arches her back. Her lips part and the tip of her pink tongue slips out to moisten them, completing the picture of her not as his old master, the wise Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi, but of the woman he'd fantasized about as a teenager. It's as false as any other front she's ever worn, but since it matches what he wants from her, he doesn't call her on it.

Instead, he stalks over to the bed and plants his knees on the firm mattress, caging her hips between them as he leans in to finally kiss her. There's no gentleness in it, none of the tenderness he'd once felt for her, that he'd shown Padmé in their stolen nights of fervent lovemaking. He wraps a damp lock of hair around his fingers and pulls. She moans into his mouth, pressing up against him while the Force sings with her desire. That, at least, is not a lie.

He cups one firm breast in his left hand, feeling the nipple peak against his palm as he rubs it. Her breath hitches, so he does it again. He bites at her lower lip, then her jaw and the notch in her collarbones before he leans in to take that pink nipple into his mouth and suck. She arches into it with another moan when he uses his teeth. 

One of her hands comes up and tangles in his hair, and he stills for a moment at that touch, sense memories flooding his mind of all the times she'd ruffled his hair or redone his padawan braid. She must sense his surprise, because she takes her hand away.

He pulls back to meet her gaze; her eyes are dark with need and heat. "Touch me," he commands, and she does. Her hands make short work of his tabards and belt, and he strips off his tunics in one hurried bunch, tossing them to the floor beside the bed. He can feel a twinge of amused exasperation in the Force, and for one brief moment, they are _Anakin and Obi-Wan_ again, instead of Darth Vader and his prisoner. 

The moment doesn't--can't--last. He won't let it. He takes her mouth again in a devouring kiss that's all teeth and tongue, and she twines her arms around his neck so she can rub her bare chest against his, the skin-to-skin contact setting off sparks in his brain. Then she shifts a hand down between them to undo his trousers and get her fingers around his cock. He gasps into her mouth as she strokes him, almost undone by this simple touch. He hooks a hand behind her knee and hitches her leg around his hip as he pushes into her. She thrusts up to meet him, perfectly timed, two halves of a whole that never should have been separated joined once again.

Her hands are everywhere this time, tweaking a nipple, tugging his hair, nails scraping down his back and digging into his ass in an effort to make him move faster. But she's not the master here, not anymore. He slows his strokes, pressing his forehead to her shoulder in order to retain some measure of control. She tightens around him, but he doesn't relent. He fucks her slowly this time, despite her cries for _more, please, Anakin_.

He comes unexpectedly, shocked and overwhelmed at the sound of his name--his former name--on her lips, and then pulls out before she can climax. He wraps his gloved hand around her slim throat.

"That's not my name."

"No," she manages, trying to twist away, the first sign of shame she's shown. "I forgot myself, _Darth_." Even while choking she manages to sound disdainful instead of apologetic. "It won't happen again."

It would be so easy to kill her now, and yet so unsatisfying. He releases her, rubbing at the red marks blossoming on her throat and forcing down the urge to kiss them better. "See that it doesn't."

Her chest heaves and she nods, her lashes bright against the sudden paleness of her cheeks.

He leans away and looks down at the mess he's left between her thighs. His cock stirs weakly at the sight, though it will be a little while before he's able to go again. 

"Well?" he says, gesturing vaguely when she gives him a confused look. "Finish yourself off."

She blinks at him in shock for a moment, but then meets his challenge head on. The flush in her cheeks rises again as one hand cups her breast and teases at the nipple while the other slides down to rub at her clit. It takes her a minute or two to find her rhythm, but soon she's gasping again, her eyes closed and her lower lip caught between her teeth as she strains for her release.

He watches avidly, all the secrets of her body laid bare to his eyes and to the Force, and her pleasure nearly oversets him when she comes. 

When she brings her fingers to her lips and licks them, he leans in for a taste, the two of them inextricably joined, the way they were always meant to be.

By now, he's hard and aching again. He rolls her over and takes her from behind again, mesmerized by the sight of his cock sliding in and out of her cunt, the smooth flex of her ass and the sinuous curve of her spine as she thrusts back against him. He fists a hand in her hair and she makes a low, desperate sound when he pulls it, her cunt clenching tight around him. Her cries are muffled by the pillow but her pleasure is loud and clear in the Force. When she comes, he follows closely, feeling wrung out and lightheaded when he's done.

They lie side by side afterward, panting and sweating and oddly silent.

Finally, Vader gets ups and gathers his clothing. Before he heads to the fresher he says, "That was satisfactory, but don't get too comfortable, Obi-Wan. I will not hesitate to kill you once I've tired of this."

He closes the door behind him before she can respond, and the satisfaction of getting the last word is nearly as pleasurable as the sex.

Still, as he scrubs himself clean, he wonders if his desire for her, smothered and ignored for so long, will ever be truly quenched.

*

When Vader had Obi-Wan brought on board the Perilous, he hadn't given much thought to what would happen next; his orders had been to investigate the rumors of rebellion on Botajef, and then return to Imperial Center, but those orders have since been amended. He's being sent to the Western Reaches to pacify an uprising. They'll be several days in hyperspace along the way, with little to do, since his battle plan is always the same--use overwhelming force until the enemy is defeated. He no longer has to worry about civilian casualties or what the Senate or the press might think. In the two years since the Empire's founding, he has yet to truly lose a battle. He's always the last man standing.

Since there's no need to plot and plan, the only demands on his time right now are morning and evening briefings with the command staff. He works out, and even spends some small amount of time in meditation, trying to figure out what Obi-Wan's true plans are. The Force is maddeningly vague in response to his queries.

He could catch up on his paperwork. He is perpetually behind on it, though one of the advantages of his position now is that no one hounds him for after action reports beyond the verbal ones he makes to the Emperor.

But how can paperwork compete with the charms of a naked and willing Obi-Wan in his quarters? No matter his intentions, he always ends up there.

She's sitting crosslegged on the bed, deep in meditation, wearing one of his tunics. It swims on her, one shoulder slipping down to expose the pale skin of her chest. Her freckles are already fading; wherever she'd been hiding, she'd seen a lot of sun. He can see it in the crow's feet crinkled around her eyes and in the deep lines around her mouth. She's settling into middle age, and the life she's lived is taking its toll. She's still beautiful, though, as fierce and potentially dangerous as a candle flame. He'll snuff her out eventually--she'd always said he'd be the death of her, but he doesn't think either of them knew how true it was at the time--but for now, he settles in at his desk, pushes aside the memories of having her there, and begins reviewing logistics reports.

He's not sure how much time has passed but the numbers are starting to blur when Obi-Wan finally moves. Vader swivels his chair and leans back to watch as she unfolds herself from the mess of his bed and walks toward him. There's no seduction in her gait, no sashay of her hips, and his tunic is long enough to cover her almost to her knees, so nothing particularly shocking is on display, but the steady purpose of her stride is both familiar and attractive. His lust for her, always simmering just below the surface, heats up.

Her eyes narrow and her lips curve in a sly grin as she stops before him and then pulls his tunic up and over her head in one smooth motion. She lets it fall to the floor and drops to her knees in front of him, the bright overhead lights making her hair gleam gold as she bows her head.

His breath catches in his throat before she's even touched him, and she uses the Force to undo his trousers.

"Frivolous," he comments hoarsely, and she lets out a wry bark of laughter before she leans in and takes the tip of his cock between her lips.

He'd had dreams about this as a teenager, and not the prophetic kind either. Given the current circumstances, he's reconsidering that, or he would be if he could think coherently. He lets out a breathy laugh of his own and then another gasp as she wraps a hand around the base and swallows him down, her mouth hot and wet and silky around him.

Vader closes his eyes and luxuriates in the sensations flooding through him. Heat licks up his spine and he cups her cheek gently for a moment before he slides it up to tangle in her hair. That draws a low grunt from her. He opens his eyes and catches her gaze. She watches him for a moment, the connection between them crackling with the same lightning buzzing in his veins, before her lashes sweep down to hide her eyes from him again.

Her tongue is as talented at this as it's been at everything else; she explores him without hesitation, learning how to please him. The aching tension builds and builds inside him; he doesn't hold back, doesn't try to stop himself from thrusting up into the heat of her mouth. She takes it gracefully and hums around him, pleased and amused in equal measure, until he comes with a hoarse shout, his breath rattling in his lungs. She swallows what she can before she pulls off, and his come spangles her chest and throat. She licks her lips and gives him a smug smile he'd like to wipe right off her face.

When his breathing evens out, he reaches down and hauls her into his lap to kiss her and lick the taste of himself off her tongue. He rubs his come into her skin, marking her yet again as his, and she doesn't object, even when he wraps a hand around her throat and thumbs the sweaty skin there. He slips his other hand between her thighs to find she's soaking wet. 

"You enjoyed that," he says, surprised.

"Yes." Her grin disappears and her eyes flutter closed again as she rocks down against his hand, her chest heaving enticingly.

"When you said you imagined...this, is this what you imagined?" He thumbs her clit roughly, fingers still sliding in and out of her cunt. He's entranced by the movement of her hips in response.

"Yes," she says again. "And also, your mouth." She presses her fingertips to his lips and he sucks on them. She tightens around his fingers and lets out a soft moan.

He doesn't even think about it; with the Force, he sweeps the desktop clear of its clutter and sets her on the edge. He sinks to his knees before her and shoulders her thighs apart so he can nuzzle the dark blonde curls of her cunt. She gasps, one hand clenching in his hair as she tilts herself up to meet his mouth. She's completely without shame.

"Oh," she breathes as he licks into her, the taste of her sharp and salty on his tongue. "Oh yes, please." 

He allows himself a smug grin before he thrusts three fingers into her cunt, his mouth latching onto her clit.

She arches into it, her thighs clamping down around his ears, muffling her ecstatic cries and pleas for more.

"That's so good," she babbles, "you're so good. I need you so much."

He's never heard her babble before. He likes it. She's no longer the untouchable, unattainable Jedi he used to fantasize about. Now he can have her in any way he chooses and fulfill all those furtive teenage longings that used to leave him feeling angry and ashamed.

She comes with a guttural moan and a full body shudder as her cunt clenches like a vice around his fingers. She tips forward when she's done, trusting him to catch her, and he curls around her protectively, forgetting for yet another brief moment that she is his enemy.

She can be turned, he tells himself as he carries her to bed. In her isolation and despair, she needs him, and it will be enough to keep her by his side forever. And if not, he'll kill her as he's always planned.

*

It's easy to fall into a rhythm with her; after all, he'd lived with her for thirteen years before she'd betrayed him, and he hasn't changed as much as she'd like to believe. This is who he's always been; it's just that now he's unfettered by the petty considerations of the Jedi, by the ridiculous rules of a corrupt society that believed itself civilized.

To keep her out of trouble while he works, he provides her with trashy holonovels and racing magazines. Nothing too current--nothing she might actually be interested in reading--and no holonet connection, so she can't try to get a message out to whoever sent her on this futile mission, whatever it may be. He can't imagine they'd approve of how she's carrying it out. 

Her only means of stimulation is him, and he's not interested in conversation. 

He doesn't spend the night with her. Sometimes he imagines waking up to her smiling face, rolling her over and covering her with kisses, but that's one fantasy he'll never get to fulfill, not now. Each time he leaves her, he reminds her that once he's sated his lust, he will kill her. She nods and agrees, but behind that beautiful facade, he knows she's plotting something. She doesn't need a weapon to kill him, but so far, she hasn't even tried. 

They fuck twice, sometimes three times a rotation, sometimes for hours at a time, until they're both wrung out and punchy with sated desire. Then he rises from the bed, still reeking of sex, pulls on his clothes, and checks in with his command staff and the rest of the fleet. 

He slices the security feed to hide her identity from his master, and moves his meager belongings into the room next door. This, too, is familiar, though he'd thought he was done _hiding_. But even he knows that Sidious will never accept her, that even if she falls to the dark side, he will see her as a threat, especially with Vader at her side. And well he should, though Vader tells himself he feels no loyalty to her now and might not choose her over Palpatine, who has given him the power and respect he deserves.

Still, he lies when the Emperor finally demands his report, saying his old expansive quarters were unnecessary, and he could do as well sleeping in the engine room, if he had to. This sort of asceticism is more a Jedi trait than a Sith one, but as long as he doesn't demand Sidious give up his luxuries, he can't imagine the man will care if he does, or at least appears to.

"Oh?" the Emperor says with false surprise, and a chill runs down Vader's spine. He fortifies his shields with all the anger and resentment he feels at being called to comm like a child being remonstrated with, and keeps his head bowed. "I heard you'd got yourself a woman."

"Yes, my Master," he admits reluctantly. He seethes silently; he'd thought he'd weeded out the hidden ISB agents in his crew.

"I must say, after dear Senator Amidala's demise, I didn't think you had it in you." His expression is a mockery of the kindness he'd once shown the boy Anakin Skywalker. "But you're still young and I suppose the long hours in hyperspace are cold and lonely." His voice is oily with insinuation.

Vader face heats shamefully and he swallows down the angry response that aches to burst out of him. He says only, "Yes, my Master."

The Emperor's voice hardens. "Slake your urges if you must, Lord Vader, but remember, your loyalty is to _me_."

"Always, my Master." His voice shakes; hopefully his master mistakes his anger for fervid devotion.

"Once you're done on Kooriva, Nakadia needs a reminder that we are a united Empire, and no secessionist rabble-rousing will be tolerated."

"Yes, my Master. They will regret their treasonous stance."

"Indeed."

The Emperor cuts the connection and Vader slumps, pressing his forehead to his knee. It is much more difficult to lie to him than it had ever been to lie to the entire Jedi Council. But his masters have both been excellent liars, and he is, as ever, an apt pupil when he chooses to be.

*

The Nakadians put up a surprisingly good fight; no doubt they've heard what happens to those who oppose the Empire and prefer to die on the battlefield than in some prison labor camp far from home.

Vader finds it invigorating to face an enemy who gives and expects no quarter, and his blood is up when he returns to the Perilous. He tears through the debrief with the senior staff so he can get back to Obi-Wan in his quarters. It's been days since he's seen her. He ignores the knowing looks his officers exchange; if they think this makes him weak, they will learn the true nature of strength.

Obi-Wan is standing at the viewport in the bedroom, her hands clasped behind her back and her body limned with stars. She turns to greet him and he shuts her up with a fierce kiss; they fuck against the cool transparisteel of the viewport, desperate and hungry and burning with the thrill of being alive after a hard battle.

She still hasn't called him by his true name, but he can hear Anakin, Anakin echoing along their reinvigorated bond as she pulls his hair and pants into his mouth when she comes. It doesn't shock him the way it did the first time, but it still warms him in a way he knows it shouldn't.

They stumble to the bed on trembling legs and she rolls onto her side, putting her back to him and curling in on herself. She emanates an overwhelming sorrow and he feels a tiny pang of horror that he's somehow made her cry. It's ridiculous, of course. If she were the crying type, surely she'd have spent all her tears by now, given what he's become. Perhaps her tears are for herself; if she believes him to be an abomination--and he's well aware that she does--what does that make _her_?

Still, the old instinct to want to make things better for her asserts itself and he's too loopy to think better of it.

"Obi-Wan?" He hesitates for a moment before putting a hand on her shoulder.

She turns back to him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. She blinks them away and runs a thumb over her lower lip before asking, "Are you happy, at least?" 

He stares at her in shock, unable to even understand the question. 

She radiates misery. "I only ever wanted for you to be happy, and I've failed in that as in so many other things." 

"You are not a failure," he insists. He no longer blames her for the Jedi Council's perfidy, and he knows what it must have cost her to walk away from the fight on Mustafar. She hadn't chosen him, it's true, but in the end, she hadn't chosen to follow their orders, either. "I am more powerful than any Jedi who ever existed, and now I have the respect I so richly deserve. I am helping to remake the galaxy, bringing peace and order to the Empire." He very deliberately doesn't think about the last time he'd said that to a woman he--well. He doesn't think about it. "Happiness has nothing to do with it. It is not a thing that I crave." It is not a thing that's possible, not with Padmé and their baby dead.

"I see." She sniffs; she clearly knows he's lying. "I loved you, you know."

"Now who's a liar?" he asks bitterly, trying not to think of how he'd have given anything to hear her say that even once back when they were still a team. 

She looks away. And then so softly he thinks he's probably not supposed to hear it, she says, "And somehow, I love you still."

His breath freezes in his chest and his mind reels before he decides this must be part of whatever long game she's playing. 

"You don't have to butter me up, and you needn't worry," he finally says, and she turns to look at him again. "I'll kill you myself before I turn you over to the Emperor." He holds her gaze intently and thinks, _you’re mine_. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t imagine her shiver in response. 

She lets out a soft huff, amused and exasperated with him even now. "I appreciate that."

"Make sure that you do." He's falling asleep. He should get up and leave, shouldn't give her the chance to kill him in his sleep, but between the adrenaline-crash and the powerful orgasm, he's too lethargic to move. 

"Sleep," she murmurs, "just this once."

Already halfway there, he gathers her close and pretends that things are as they used to be, or as he'd once wanted them to be. 

*

Kuat Drive Yards

The Perilous takes a small amount of damage in battle over Enarc, so after the recalcitrant Separatists there are defeated with extreme prejudice, they make for Kuat for repairs. Vader gives the men leave, even making a trip down to the surface himself their second day there, in order to pick up food that isn't protein paste or ration bars. He buys several cartons of spicy Kuati stir fry and noodles from a street vendor, the mouthwatering scent of it filling the shuttle on his return to the ship, and after a brief stop in the officers' rec room to pick up two bottles of crisp Corellian lager, he takes his offering to his quarters to share with Obi-Wan.

She's never been one to eat properly--after his first few weeks as her padawan, he'd made it his duty to ensure she ate at least twice a day, and didn't subsist on tea and crackers and the occasional hardboiled egg. She was a terrible cook, so he'd learned, slowly but surely, to make simple but delicious meals to feed her so they didn't have to eat in the refectory, where he was often the subject of whispers and stares. 

During the war, he had ceded the job to Cody, but no one is looking after her now, and despite everything, he can't shake the feeling that someone ought to be. And that that someone might be him.

He hasn't eaten with her since she came aboard the Perilous, and as the weeks turn into months, he can see her wasting away to nothingness, despite the meals he has sent to her regularly, with a precisely programmed MSE droid.

He finds the old urge to feed her resurfacing, more so now that he can feel how thin she's becoming when she's pressed up against him in bed.

She looks surprised and pleased when he sets the cartons out on the conference table and then offers her a bottle of beer. It's plastic, of course, nothing breakable that she could turn into a weapon. Perhaps she'll try to stab him with one of her cheap wooden chopsticks, but for now she just digs into the carton of ginger noodles with a delighted sigh.

"You remembered they're my favorite."

"Of course," he says, though they both know there's no _of course_ about it. 

They eat in companionable silence; she eats most of the noodles and some of the greens and leaves the prawns and hot peppers for him. He passes her one nerf dumpling and keeps the rest for himself. The beer is cold and soothing after the burn of the peppers, and even though it's barely alcoholic by Obi-Wan's standards, Vader can already feel it going to his head.

"You need to eat more," he tells her.

"I'm full," she says, patting her belly, which still looks too flat to him.

"Not just now," he insists. "I know ration bars and nutrient paste aren't the most flavorful items, but you look like a stiff wind would knock you over."

She blinks slowly at him, her mouth currently occupied by her drink. Her throat works as she swallows and he's already hungry the taste of beer on her tongue.

"Fattening me up?" she asks with a wry twist to her mouth.

"You'll need your strength for whatever plan you've been hatching," he replies, though the thought of her gaining a little weight, filling out a little more, is appealing in its own right. He thinks of how her belly and breasts would swell if he put a baby in her, and has to clear his throat before he can speak again. That's a thought he can never entertain. "I want you at full capacity when I finally defeat you." He plucks the bottle from her hand and places it on the table before he reaches over and pulls her into his lap. He pushes his hands up underneath her tunic and splays them over her ribs. "Also, you're getting bony."

"Oh, we can't have that, can we, Lord Vader." There's genuine amusement in her voice now and she rearranges herself so she's straddling his thighs.

"No," he says, food and conversation forgotten as she grinds down against him, the heat of her cunt palpable even through his trousers. His cock responds immediately. He'd expected months of constant fucking to blunt the strength of his desire for her, but it hasn't happened yet. 

He uses his fingers first, watching the sensations play out on her face and feeling them in the Force as she rocks down onto his hand, chasing her release. She comes with a long sigh of pleasure, her head tipped back and her skin flushed pink. She's still fluttering with the aftershocks when he slides inside her, and she looks down at him hazily, brushing his hair off his forehead even as she rolls her hips to meet his thrusts.

The chair beneath him squeaks in warning, and only Force-enhanced reflexes save them from spilling to the floor in an ungainly heap when it collapses.

She gasps with laughter and murmurs, "The bed." 

The undignified scramble out of their clothes and into the bed is forgotten as he presses her into the mattress and covers her body with his. Her legs wrap around his hips and she tips her face up to meet his kisses, her tongue sliding hotly against his before she withdraws to nip at his lower lip.

Pleasure burns through him with every thrust, and he finds himself speaking nonsense into her ear, telling her how beautiful she is and how good she makes him feel. The thoughts he hadn't allowed himself to have spill out in words he doesn't intend to speak. With each thrust of his hips he tells her, "I'm gonna fill you up. I'm gonna put a baby in you."

She gasps in shock and clenches tightly around him, her orgasm flooding the Force with ecstasy and pulling him into it with her. Lightning licks down his spine and white light sparks behind his eyelids as he empties himself into her with abandon.

Finally he rolls off her and onto his back, still heaving and shuddering for breath. They lie silently and his words come back to him as sweat cools on skin that now heats with angry embarrassment. He'd _had_ a child, a child he'd lost--a child he'd killed, when he's being honest with himself. He doesn't deserve even the pretense of wanting one now. His attachments had made it hard for him to be a good Jedi; he won't make the same mistake as a Sith.

"I should not have said those things," he says, sitting up and reaching for his trousers. 

Instead of agreeing as she should, Obi-Wan says, "I didn't realize how much you truly wanted children."

He clenches his fists in an attempt to keep from strangling her where she lays. "I am no longer that man."

She kneels up behind him, warm body pressing against his back, and arms draped loosely around his neck. "That is a shame," she whispers, "because Anakin Skywalker's children live."

Her shields are down and the Force sings with the truth of her words, burning his soul with their brightness. 

"What?" he shouts. "Children?"

"Shh." She presses a finger to his lips and draws him back down into the warm nest of pillows and sheets. "It's the biggest secret in the galaxy. The twins survived." Her voice is so low as to be almost subvocal, though there are no bugs in this room at present. That he knows of. She's wise to be cautious. She always is.

"Twins?" he murmurs against her ear.

She nods.

"Alive?"

Another nod.

"Where?"

This time she shakes her head. "Somewhere safe."

How can they be safe if neither he nor Obi-Wan is there to protect them? "Then why are you not with them?"

"As long as I am a target, they wouldn't be safe with me." She leans closer. "As long as Sidious lives, they will not--they _cannot_ \--be safe." 

There's truth in that, too, and suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle click into place. "So, that's your game? Why you're here?" 

"It's no game." 

"No," he agrees. "It's not." He needs to think, and it's almost impossible to do that with Obi-Wan naked and snuggled up against him. 

"Is it not the way of the Sith?" she presses softly, urgently. "For you to overthrow your master?"

He'd wanted to--he'd planned to, until Padmé had rejected the galaxy he planned to lay at her feet. Since then, he has bided his time, raging and bitter with loss, and glad to take it out on a galaxy that would not behave as it should. It's easier to be the Emperor's blunt instrument, his durasteel fist, than it is to be a thinking, planning human being. But for her children--their children--he could do it. 

"With you by my side," he says, testing it out.

Her answering smile is wide and delighted. "Sith Lords are our specialty."

"I am not turning back," he warns her. "I cannot turn back. I am no Jedi."

"We'll burn that bridge when we come to it." She pauses, then, "Anakin."

"Yes," he says, pulling her on top of him and allowing himself the thrill of hearing his name on her tongue again. "We will."

end

**Author's Note:**

> This is just to say that Padme did survive and is taking care of the twins and did not approve of this plan at all, but couldn't talk Obi-Wan out of it. I'm not going to write it, but I do enjoy imagining Obi-Wan's stealthy peace out after they kill Palaptine, so she doesn't have to awkwardly explain to Padme that she spent a couple of months fucking her husband into overthrowing the Emperor.


End file.
